I am on the pendulum of the sky that gives room to dreams.
The night, lost in the rhythm of love, and the words that pour out the blue, flow syllable syllable.
The hum of the universe does not cease, the pain and the whirlwind for which we perish.
Love is a color.
Living in a depression.
Mortal butterfly whose motto winks at joy and hope.
The memory hidden in the day is the remainder of the life in the day...
What he emulates is the temperament of life that is limited to only twenty-four hours.
A person imitating a bird.
Butterfly while hurling accusations and rebellion against her cocoon.
The torn clothes of the scavenger and the beggar, whose eyes pierced the day, are actually hidden in the dowry chest.
Fueled dreams and ghost birds.
If man and his teaching are the ones we imitate of the universe, it is like water that sometimes goes beyond drawing, and the still-living gestures of a child whose corpse of love is encountered in a dry stream bed.
Migratory birds are also migrants.
Is it the season of migration of nature, or is the vengeance of tomorrows in the past?
Ah, respectable innocence and love, but once the human being is disgraced, and the feeling that is left in the heart, the echo of longing is to the hearts full of love when we need it most.
The roof of the sky and the delusion of love…
Do people always love and make mistakes?
It's migration time.
While someone is pulling:
Who said it's "time of vengeance" now?
If it's easy, start over.
A.
Two.
Three.
Silence
What if,
Sometimes you are silent, sometimes you burn in your silence.
Sometimes you are sad and sometimes you avoid being happy.
Sometimes you value someone
But sometimes you are ashamed of the value you place on his worthlessness...
Sometimes you want to talk to someone
Sometimes people think of hypocrisy.
You shut up again.
Sometimes you want to stare into someone's eyes for hours
But the eyes you look at
You turn your head when you see that he doesn't look like you.
Sometimes you want to scream that I found love
Sometimes you want to hear someone's voice
You will never find it next to you!
There is no sound, and in the nooks and crannies the metasaur shadows are actually parasitic receptive birds on the run.
Dreams and ghost cities that we emulate and kill.
The lane of restless spirits and dream stalactites.
In pursuit of death and the invisible, screaming in seclusions, people are actually running away from themselves.
People.
The one who silences.
Fleeing from his homeland.
Falling like a refugee into the sea pouring from the disgraced boat.
The loneliness of the lie and the jester who escaped from the shadow of humanity, since we have been annotated, the one who clings to his care under the title of people who sometimes attack each other as much as we avoid hope for life.
The depression of humanity is that the angels have withdrawn from the scene.
Loneliness, the product of cantor, hidden in its dark fortune that plots against the sky.
Hours left to the end of my life and the ringing of the season, however, it is still summer and hot and the last grain of sand has not fallen, since the love hidden in the hourglass is longing for tomorrow and hope.
It's migration time.
Maybe revenge.
No one escapes from himself, sometimes as enthusiastic as a sapling, sometimes vague and in love with his Lord.
Human tracks.
Flooded images and silhouettes.
The birds are free.
Humanity is in the grip.
A butterfly's song and life is only in the hidden twenty-hour pendulum.
dividing the day.
Pierced darkness.
Innocence is lost and so is humanity.
A rainbow in love with its color.
The pain we heal is the past we look forward to.
The time of emigration is never the hour of vengeance.
The existence of the Lord, who presented humanity to man, and the inhuman existence that we have entrusted to the Divine, as well as what we have entrusted to man.
We cannot migrate.
The magic hidden in us is your existence.
The meaning of being born from the embers.
A handful of hope left behind from the ashes.
As someone shouted from the place where we were shot: "Just forget it."
A broken scepter on the ruler of sorrow.
So many waves beyond our height.
Perhaps the consolation of being human is hidden in the next day.
If the butterfly is a dream with a temperament, we are running away from ourselves with regret.
Man cannot immigrate from himself, but his vengeance is limitless, whereas love and hope were not our purpose of creation...
